“I don’t want bodies sitting in a faulty fridge for the next week.”
Dani was grateful for a brief respite from the work, but worried about the stipend they’d come to rely on. She walked to the morgue, tugging her wagon behind her, more out of habit than necessity. Even with no bodies to tend to, there was still work to be done, and possibly laundry to bring home. But after finding the cold locker empty—and not very cold—with no new dead to be cared for, she made a thorough reassessment of the clothing she kept on hand and added a series of updates in her ledger. By 7:00 p.m., she was ready to leave.
A light rapping at the main door had her frowning up at the clock.
Seven o’clock on a Tuesday evening was too late for a delivery, but maybe Mr. Raus had scheduled a repairman to come while she was there and had forgotten to warn her in all the hubbub.
She approached the door wearily. She wanted to go home. But the rapping became scraping in the lock, and she realized whoever was entering had a key.
“Mr. Raus?” she called.
“No. No. Not Mr. Raus, Miss Kos,” a voice answered, jovial. “It’s just me.”
A man stepped inside the facility and hung his straw hat and a white suitcoat on a peg beside the door. It was too hot for anything but shirtsleeves, and he began to roll his as if he was well-accustomed to the work of the morgue.
“I don’t think we’ve ever met before, Miss Kos,” he continued, not even looking up at her as he washed and dried his hands.
“There are no dead to attend to, sir,” she said, uncertain. “Mr. Raus made other arrangements this week while he’s out of town. Did he not tell you?”
“No. No. He didn’t tell me. Mr. Raus and I have not talked in years, though I used to help him here and in his mortuary in ’33. I’m sure he is not even aware that I have access to this building. Undertaker’s privilege.” He winked and began pulling on a pair of gloves. “The security is really quite sloppy. He’s clearly not worried about his clients.” He chuckled.
She could not remember his name, but she recognized him. He’d been one of the doctors at Dr. Peterka’s practice for a while. He’d sat with the others some mornings in the lounge, but she couldn’t remember ever speaking to him.
He was heavier than he’d been years before, but the puffiness in his face and the ruddiness in his cheeks indicated a fondness for alcohol that had probably contributed to his weight. His faded red hair waved back from a large forehead, and the round spectacles that sat on his prominent nose illuminated the blue of his eyes.
“Forgive me, Doctor. I don’t remember your name,” she said, retreating several steps. He didn’t seem inclined to leave even though there were no undertakings to perform.
“You don’t?” He tipped his head at her in amazement. “But I have known your name for so long. And I was sure your friend would have reminded you.”
“My friend?”
“Your boarder. Such a fascinating man. I heard him talking about you. With Eliot Ness. I thought he might stay in Cleveland. But men like that don’t stay, do they?”
“My boarder?” she asked, her voice faint, and dread pooled at her feet.
“Mike. Michael Malone. He called you Dani. But I prefer Daniela. A beautiful name for a beautiful girl. You look like your mother. Aneta Kos and I were friends, you know, when we were young. Edward Peterka introduced us. But she left Cleveland, didn’t she? Got swept off her feet. And she never came back. I was sorry to hear of her passing. But that was years ago.”
“Can I help you with something, Doctor?” He was too close to the door. She would not be able to get past him. Her mind scrambled for options, should she need them.
“I don’t know, Daniela.” He paused, studying her, one gloved hand cupping his chin, one wrapped around his middle. “I have something for you. And a confession of sorts.”
“You do?” A bead of sweat scuttled from the base of her neck to the waistband of her skirt.
“Yes. I am a fan of your work, though I’ve never quite understood it.”
“Have you worn one of our suits, Doctor?” she asked, voice faint.
“No, I confess I haven’t. I’ve never worn anything with the Kos label, though I suspect I’ve been missing out. You have such a delicate and distinct hand.”
Dani looked down at her fingers and back up at the man, who was smiling at her in such an odd, benevolent manner. Her hands didn’t tremble and her gaze stayed steady, but her knees were knocking beneath her skirt.
The doctor turned back to his suitcoat and took a small stack of papers from the breast pocket. He walked toward her, clutching them, but stopped several feet from her, his arm extended. Her eyes darted to his offering, and she froze. The papers in his hands were obituaries. Her obituaries. The ones she made for all the unknowns.
“I’ve startled you, haven’t I?” he asked. “I’m sorry.” He pulled the papers back and fixed the spectacles on his nose, as if he were preparing to remind her of the words she’d written.
“These are just my favorites, but I’ve read them all. For years now, I’ve read them all. And I’ve wondered about you.” He read a few out loud, and she remembered each one. He’d taken them from her dead.
“It seems we both have a fondness for Dickinson. So witty. So droll. I think she must be like us. ‘I’m nobody, who are you? Are you a nobody too?’” he quoted. “This place is a home for the nobodies, isn’t it? But you and I, we take our work very seriously. We make the nobodies into somebodies.” He smiled and shook his head. “You name them all and give them lives. It’s delightful.”
“I don’t know what you want,” she whispered. “Or why you would take those from the dead. They have nothing, and you took even the little I could give them.”
“And you still don’t know who I am?”
She hesitated.
“Ah . . . I thought so.” He waggled a finger at her. “You shouldn’t lie about such things. Names are important.”